CHAPTER 3: She/Her/Daughter/Wife
Pat was my primary caretaker as my parents divorced when I was five years old. My older sisters were already out of the house. My brother, Randy, eight years my senior, and I would spend time with my Dad, Elm, two weekends a month, if I remember correctly. I have no recollection of missing my Dad in-between visits or abandonment issues, only fond memories of our time together. I learned to swim in his condominium's community pool, and on Saturdays- I gobbled up the yumminess of Dunkin Donut's creations- 2 Donuts and a grape fountain drink filled with crushed ice. I also remember feeling very grown-up and proud at age eleven after shaving the front of my lower legs (only!) for the first time while on vacation in Ft. Lauderdale with my Dad and Randy.
Pat was a clean-freak, and that's an understatement. A few of Pat's undertakings or rules included- white shag rugs raked to perfection (covered with plastic runners not to show any footprints), sidewalks scrubbed with bleach, and the touching of walls was a no-no to ensure there would be no fingerprints. My weekly household task was to clean the bathrooms spic and span, or I couldn't go out and play. So, without my Dad's request, I decided that I could also do this nicety for my Dad during my visits. Subconsciously, it probably had something to do with how cleaning bathrooms equated to approval. I have to admit that now, as an adult, I do very much appreciate a lovely bathroom.
It goes to follow that while Harry and I dated, I took it upon myself to perform some basic tasks in his condo, such as decorating and general upkeep. He understood that this was my way of showing appreciation for his old-fashioned chivalry, i.e., picking up the tab when we would go out together. Although I worked full-time for half our years together, I only worked as an independent contractor for gigs I would pick up here and there during the second half. It was a natural progression that my primary role would be as a homemaker and corporate wife when we decided to live between two homes. It was a mutually agreeable choice.
Harry and I lived in Chicago during our first five years of marriage and then split our time living in our second home in southern France, years seven through thirteen. Harry and I had wanted to live abroad and craftily created a position for him as Global Sales Manager within the company where he was employed. My primary roles became decorator, shopper, entertainer, suitcase packing manager, Harry's stylist, and corporate wife. Although we had magical dreams of renovating our France home, our divorce was an interruption, if you will. However, we did renovate our Chicago guest bath during the final years of our marital bliss. (Insert sarcasm, which serves as my go-to attempt of humor at times, as you will notice throughout.) Ironically, in the newly renovated bathroom of our last marital home, one of Harry's physical abuse occurrences took place. We were arguing, and Harry would not let me out of the room. He trapped me inside and pinned me down on the floor as I tried to exit, screaming at me with his knee in my chest. He appeared visibly mortified when he had to read aloud an email he sent me during his deposition during our lengthy and painful divorce.
"I am sure it is not all you need, but it is a start. I am trying. To reiterate what I said yesterday, I am so very sorry for blocking you and wrestling you to the ground in the bathroom. I am so sorry for pinning you to the floor. I am sorry for yelling at you and calling you names. My behavior was wrong, and I am ashamed. I am sorry I lost my temper and didn't leave the house when I had the opportunity. That I didn't leave even when you asked me to. I am mad at myself. I know that I can't take back what I did, but I promise to try to never let myself get that overwhelmed again. To try to always take the "out" option earlier regardless of what the situation.”
Until recently, I hadn't put much thought into the joy I feel about having a chandelier in my newly renovated bathroom in my new home, now as a Survivor and single woman taking care of myself, including my bathroom. I am safe here and no longer clean up after anyone else's shit.
I often acknowledge that my upbringing was a dichotomy of sorts. I was the youngest sibling, with a fourteen-year gap between the eldest and myself. I was also born in the 60's- a decade, a generation, of empowerment and confusion, in my opinion. Vietnam, Beatles, Woodstock, walking on the moon, women's movement and burning of bras, Martin Luther King, martinis, drugs, Kennedy, and station wagons with an unsafe back-facing bench seat that us kids would joyfully fight over for the position. Although I was not aware then, I now understand how that environment shaped my formative years and choices.
My mother was a beautiful divorcee working woman, charitable-society-who's-who and married again when I was seven years old. My father was a WW2 naval pilot who became a stable business owner and married my mother after breaking off his engagement to another woman in doing the "honorable thing", as she was carrying his child.
My step-father, Steven, was a sound corporate man who was always present to help me with my math homework. I also recall numerous martinis and old-fashioneds flowing between Pat and Steven. At the same time, "More", "My cup runneth over with love", or anything Frankie Valley and The Four Seasons played on an eight-track player on the basement bar. Unfortunately, I also remember their crazy fights as they would scream, and my mom would throw drinks or a dish at Steven. Elm was the recipient of Pat throwing all his clothing into a pile in the middle of the upstairs foyer. From my viewpoint, conflicts between my mom and her husband/s were what "love" looked like before I was ten years old. For me, this was normal. Including when she would throw things at me, spank me with a slipper till I was black and blue, or tore up a pair of my favorite- only pair of "allowed" jeans, with sweet pink bows on the pockets. This also is what "love" looked like for me between the age of five to sixteen. When I was around 18, she said, "You came into this world with nothing, and you will go out with nothing." Which I did, and then married my first husband (now ex-husband #1) at just twenty and a half years old. He, too, was a stable businessman, and we had two beautiful bouncing baby boys together during our seven-year marriage.
I now recognize that I was perfectly groomed to meet Harry decades before we met. (As well as my prior husbands.) Please don't misunderstand; I am not blaming my Mother, Father/s, or any situation for my ultimate choices. It is when with understanding, non-judgment, and compassion, we may find the answers we seek to change that which did not, nor any longer, work for us. Through life's lessons, difficult personal work, empathy, and courage, we can move forward in creating the change we wish to see. Self-limiting beliefs, the stories embedded in our minds and what we tell ourselves, environments we were born into, the "shoulds" or right and wrongs are ours to choose and let go of if we decide.
Is your bathroom clean or filled with cobwebs begging to be dusted away?
